After work, I drove across the city to Michael and Kurt's place.
The moment I stepped out of the car, I could already hear children screaming somewhere inside the building.
Not distressed screaming.
Just... child screaming.
I stood there for a second with my briefcase in one hand and thought, Thank God we never adopted children.
I loved Michael and Kurt dearly. I truly did.
But between Elliott's schedule and my own career, adding children into our lives probably would've killed me outright. I could barely keep track of my husband some weeks. If someone had handed me a toddler on top of that, I might've simply laid down in traffic voluntarily.
The noise got louder as I climbed the stairs.
Michael and Kurt lived in one of those renovated San Francisco buildings where every apartment was technically a TIC but everyone just called them condos because nobody had the energy for a legal seminar before dinner.
By the time I reached the door, I already looked tired.
Michael swung it open immediately.
"Oh, thank God you came."
I stared at him.
"Michael, what the fuck is going on? You call me sounding like the world is ending, so this better be good."
He grimaced.
"Well... that's a matter of taste."
I narrowed my eyes immediately.
For one terrible second, I genuinely thought:
Oh, sweet Christ. He's killed somebody.
Somehow, I was about to spend my evening helping dispose of a body.
Instead, Michael stepped aside and motioned for me to follow him into the living room.
"Jonathan," he said carefully, "meet Martin."
I looked up.
A tall, painfully thin guy stood awkwardly near the couch with his hands shoved into the pockets of an oversized denim jacket. Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. Nervous posture.
He didn't look American.
He looked back at me cautiously.
"Hi," he said.
"Hello," I replied slowly.
Then I turned to Michael.
"What exactly is this?"
Michael sighed.
"Well... this is my friend Martin. He's an artist. Sort of."
Martin rolled his eyes.
"I'm an artist completely, actually."
"Right," Michael continued dryly. "And he recently had a situation with his boyfriend Carlos, meaning he currently does not have a safe place to stay."
I blinked.
Immediately my brain jumped to the worst possibility.
"Wait," I said carefully. "Are we talking about domestic violence? Because if we're talking about—"
"No," Martin interrupted quickly. "God, no. Nothing like that."
He leaned back against the wall.
"It was more of a creative difference."
I stared at him.
"A creative difference."
"Yes," he said seriously. "He decided to fuck my friend Jelly, and I decided that wasn't acceptable artistically."
I snorted before I could stop myself.
"Well," I admitted, "touché."
Martin smiled slightly then, the first real expression I'd seen from him since I arrived.
"Parlez-vous français?" he asked suddenly.
I looked at him, surprised.
"Oui."
His face brightened immediately.
"Oh, thank God. I'm from Montreal."
I nodded once.
"Oh. So you don't actually speak French."
Martin looked personally offended.
"Excuse me?"
"You speak eighteenth-century farmer French."
Michael groaned quietly from somewhere behind us.
Martin narrowed his eyes at me.
"That's very funny. Let me guess — family from France?"
"No," I said. "I just went to school there."
He crossed his arms.
"I've always wanted to go to Paris."
There was something unexpectedly sincere in the way he said it.
"Maybe one day I'll find a man ambitious enough to afford it."
Michael clapped his hands together once, loudly.
"Anyway," he interrupted before either of us could continue, "Martin needs somewhere to stay temporarily, and I remembered you and Elliott have that spare room—"
I turned slowly toward him.
"Michael," I said flatly, "do I look like a fucking Motel 6?"
"Technically no," Martin offered. "Your coat alone suggests significantly higher rates."
I laughed despite myself.
Martin lifted both hands defensively.
"I promise I won't be a problem. I'm barely home anyway. I spend most of my time at the studio."
"And when you are home?" I asked.
"I can cook. I clean. I'm emotionally delightful."
"You're emotionally exhausting," Michael corrected.
Martin ignored him completely.
For a moment, I just stood there thinking.
The truth was, the townhouse had felt painfully empty lately.
Elliott was almost never home before midnight anymore. Half the time we barely spoke except in passing between schedules and obligations and exhaustion.
Some nights I wandered through rooms built for two people and somehow still felt alone inside them.
And maybe that was pathetic.
But maybe Michael knew that already.
I looked back at Martin.
He looked exhausted beneath the humor. Tired in the way people got when they were trying very hard to pretend things were temporary.
I let out a slow breath.
You know what? Maybe having another person around the house wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.
Maybe it would even help with the crushing existential dread.
"Fuck it," I said finally.
Both of them blinked.
I grabbed my keys back off the entry table.
"Come on," I told Martin. "Let's go."